“I'll tell him, madam,” said Harbottle, bent on getting rid of her. “As soon as he comes in, and I'm sure he'll be very grateful to you.”
“I only hope he does something!” said Mrs. Midgeholme, beginning, to his relief, to collect her gloves and handbag.
Ten minutes after her departure, Hemingway walked in.
“You've missed Mrs. Midgeholme,” Harbottle told him.
“I told you I'd got flair. What did she want?”
“To help you do your job. I was very near to telling her you'd gone off with a blonde.”
“It's a good thing you didn't. She's a blonde herself, and if she once got the idea I go for blondes I'd never be able to shake her off. I was right about Gladys: young Haswell did make her sit up.”
“Did you get anything important out of her?” Harbottle asked curiously.
“That I can't say. But she's got her head screwed on the right way, has Gladys. She says that if the late Warrenby was sitting in the garden with his slippers on it must have been something highly unexpected which took him out of the house.”
“Why?” demanded Harbottle.